


TARDIS knows best

by PlainJane



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, M/M, Post Reichenbach, not really a crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a case in Cardiff, John and Sherlock encounter the TARDIS and are forced to confront their changing relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TARDIS knows best

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for puppysizedavengingwholock, as part of the tumblr sherlocksecretsanta. As you will see, this is not—strictly speaking—a crossover. However, it would seem that extraordinary things do happen in and around the TARDIS. I’ll leave you to your deductions.

“You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re the one who insisted on staying until the post mortem was completed. He did warn you it could take a day or two; he offered to email the report.”

“Shut. Up.”

“We could have gone back yesterday,” John continued, ignoring the glower Sherlock directed back over his shoulder. He took a bite of his snack and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “It’s really very pleasant here. I like it. Nice to get out of London for a couple of days.”

Sherlock stopped dead; John looked up at the last second, narrowly avoiding a full-body collision with the detective. The taller man turned slowly, his eyes narrowing at John. John, naturally, was unfazed.

“What?” He took another bite of the tasty treat he’d picked up on St. Mary Street.

“We have been detained by incompetence and sloth and you think we’re on holiday? And what the hell are you eating?” He regarded the food in John’s hand with disdain.

“Glamorgan sausage. Local specialty thing. The girl was nice enough to wrap it to take away. S’good. Want some?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John shrugged with a cheeky grin. “No point in making a fuss. _You_ wanted the pathologist’s report in your hot little hand, so we stayed. It’s not his fault you didn’t like the hotel.”

Sherlock huffed.

“Or the restaurant last night.”

Sherlock was staring out over John’s head now.

“Or the caf this morning,” John chuckled. “So you don’t like Cardiff! Shouldn’t have taken the case here, then.” He took another bite and shifted around the detective to keep walking along Duke Street. He heard Sherlock’s footfalls behind him.

“Can we please go back to the police station?”

“What for? You called the detective a moron and told his sergeant he had carpal tunnel syndrome as a result of excessive masturbation.”

“So?”

“How many times, Sherlock?” John replied wryly. “You don’t need me to tell you—again—that offending people will not inspire them to cooperate with you.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Fine. Please yourself.” John popped the last of his sausage in his mouth and wiped his hands with the wrapper. “If we’re still here later, there’s a rugby match on. You can come with me or you can sit at the hotel and pout if you like.”

“What’s that?”

John glanced up from the bin where he was depositing the paper remains of his small feast and followed Sherlock’s gaze across the street to the castle’s now-grassy moat.

“Dunno. Looks like they’re filming someth—hang about…”

John marched purposefully to the pedestrian crossing. Sherlock trailed behind him, curious and more than a little amused.

Once on the other side of the street, John made a beeline for the main castle gate. As they neared it, he began to sputter. “That’s…that’s—”

“That’s what?” Sherlock asked. “A large group of people in very odd kit milling about? An old-fashioned police call box? A man with excessively floppy hair in a badly cut tweed suit with too-short trousers? A young woman in a…well, a lizard costume apparently…”

John stared at him, shaking his head, his mouth hanging open. “I just—sometimes I really despair of you, you know that. THAT is Doctor Who, you Philistine! The greatest television program we have ever produced. How can you call yourself British and not know about Doctor Who?”

“Television program?” Sherlock grimaced. “Popular culture. Irrelevant. Deleted.”

“But I’ve watched it at home! Right in front of—just last week, you were next to me on the sofa through an entire episode!”

“John, it really shouldn’t surprise you at this point that I never pay attention to what you are watching on telly,” Sherlock drawled. “Besides, I was in my Mind Palace.”

“Yes, I know. You draped yourself across the sofa _and_ me while you were there, thanks very much.”

“You didn’t seem to mind overly,” Sherlock mused, watching John out of the corner of his eye. “You were stroking my hair.”

John’s cheeks pinkened ever-so-slightly. “You…just…”

“Oh, look! They’re setting up to shoot something.” Sherlock strode ahead, leaving John flustered in his wake.

John sighed heavily, trying to shake it off and knowing likely he wouldn’t succeed.

To say things had been different since Sherlock came back would be an understatement. They were still friends, and understood each other in a way no one else ever had, but even John was sensible enough to admit that something had shifted.

After the miraculous resurrection, John had been angry. Very angry. But he’d also been glad. Grateful. Greedy. He’d wanted to spend as much time with the man as humanly possible and resented anything that prevented him from catching up on the three years they’d missed.

It had ruined his relationship with Mary, which he knew should bother him more than it did. But moving back to 221B had felt so completely natural; so very right. John hadn’t been able to feel guilty for long.

Thing was, he was pretty sure Sherlock was feeling much the same way. The man had never really understood the concept of personal space, but now? He touched John all the time, usually for no reason at all. He would deliberately drag his fingertips over the back of John’s hand when John handed him things. He would stand so close at crime scenes that they were touching at the hip. He would wedge himself up against John’s body on the sofa to read the paper, or—as with the episode of Doctor Who the week before—sprawl out along the length of the cushions and drop his head into John’s lap.

At first, John had been a bit startled by this new level of intimacy. But as with everything in his life when it came to Sherlock, as odd as it was, somehow it just made sense. He’d finally stopped arguing with himself over what it might or might not mean. Instead, he’d allowed himself to touch back. To pat the man’s hand over a vindaloo or rub his back through the wool coat as he puzzled over evidence. To wrap an arm around Sherlock’s waist when he was particularly wound up or run his fingers through the silky, springy mass of curls when they were nestled against his thighs.

John bit the inside of his cheek, his face very red now.

He hurried to catch up to where Sherlock was having a very animated conversation with a harried-looking young woman carrying an iPad, standing sentry at the end of the castle’s drawbridge.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock beamed at him. He was shamming, obviously; clearly flirting to get something. John almost felt sorry for people when the detective did this. To bask in the warmth of that beautiful smile and then realize—too late—it wasn’t real seemed terribly cruel to him.

He cursed himself silently: When had he started thinking of his flatmate’s smile as ‘beautiful’?

“Mandy was just telling me they are filming part of the Christmas special here today.”

John nodded, grinning. “That’s brilliant! Don’t suppose you can reveal any secrets?”

“Sorry,” she giggled, eyeing Sherlock with more than a little curiosity. “I—“

“Mandy!” The dark-haired man with the Scottish accent approaching from inside the castle was clearly flustered. “We’ve hit a snag! We need to call a break for at least an hour.” He stopped short as he got close enough to identify the two men standing with his production assistant. “Say, aren’t you—” He pointed at Sherlock. “You’re that detective with the hat. The one who came back from the dead. That was a pretty neat trick.”

Sherlock smiled tightly. John stifled his laughter; mention of the hat still managed to put Sherlock in a foul temper and there was no point making it worse.

“Fan, are you?” the man asked, looking a little pleased.

“Actually my colleague is quite a fan,” Sherlock gestured to John. “I’ve learned to enjoy the program only very recently.”

Sherlock turned to John, eyes wide and lustrous with faux innocence. John pursed his lips in disapproval. And to avoid a smirk.

“I don’t suppose we could…” Sherlock began.

The man nodded, waving an arm at the set. “Sure, yeah. Go on. We’re going to be down for a bit now. Have a look round, if you like.” He called to a security guard nearby. “Rob? These two are guests. Just mind they don’t take anything with them when they leave.” He winked at John and turned to head back into the castle.

John felt a bit giddy (no thanks to the wild imaginings of his eight-year-old self) as Sherlock placed a hand in the small of his back and guided him down the grassy knoll to where Rob the security guard was keeping watch over the barricade. He nodded to them both as he pulled it wide to let them pass. John swallowed hard as he neared the set pieces.

“Is it everything you imagined it would be?” Sherlock whispered.

“It’s…brilliant,” John replied reverently. “This is—well, it looks like Silurian technology. So that would explain the lizard costume. She’s _homo reptilia._ They are an ancient race that populated the earth before humans and…” John trailed off as he glanced up to see Sherlock’s eyes rolling back in his head. “Right. Never mind. Not important.”

As fascinating as the rest was, John pressed forward, a singular goal in mind. It sat, unattended, in the centre of a fake-snowy and somewhat scorched pattern cut into the turf.

The TARDIS.

John’s breath quickened as he got near the simple, unassuming, yet iconic blue box.

He glanced around (Sherlock did likewise—looking a bit puzzled) as he stepped closer and laid a hand against the familiar blue paint.

“I can’t believe I’m touching the TARDIS.”

“I take it the box is significant?”

“It travels through time and space.”

“It is a prop made out of plywood. It travels to and from film sets on a lorry.”*

“Don’t ruin this for me, you git.”

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “Fine. How many people travel through time and space in this box?”

“Usually just the doctor and his companion, or companions. But sometimes more.”

“Seems unlikely.”

John turned to see the broad brow furrowed: Sherlock was calculating the interior dimensions of the TARDIS. “It’s bigger on the inside,” John offered.

Sherlock hummed. “Have to be, wouldn’t it?” He looked at John expectantly. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Don’t you want to _see_?”

“What, go inside?” John was aghast. “But I shouldn’t. I mean—” He checked back to where Rob the guard had been standing, but the man was now engaged in conversation with a man in strange floppy hat. John bit his lip. “Maybe we could just peek in.”

“Maybe we could,” Sherlock said indulgently. “Go on.”

John pushed on the door, gently at first. “It’s, uhm, a bit…stiff,” he started, giving the door a shove with his shoulder. With a squeak of swollen wood, the door gave way and John stumbled inside. “Oh!”

Sherlock poked his head in first, hands clasped behind his back, then took a tentative step within. John turned in a small circle in the centre of the box, his grin broad.

“It’s…it’s…”

“The inside of a blue box,” Sherlock completed for him, sounding very amused.

“You don’t understand. This was the epicentre of all my dreams and fantasies as a kid! Imagining the doctor turning up and offering to take me absolutely anywhere? Adventures on other planets, or on earth in another time—honestly, I couldn’t get enough of it.”

Sherlock hummed shimmying around John and reaching out to push the door closed behind him. “There. Now we are completely on board. Where shall we go?”

John chuckled, grazing Sherlock’s body as he turned to face him. He looked up into his friend’s remarkably relaxed face and felt a strange fluttering in his belly. _Oh, dear_.

John backed up until he was flattened against the opposite wall, hands behind his back. He stared down at his shoes for a moment. “Well, no point in asking if you’d like to visit another planet…oh, I know. Why don’t we go back to 1888? You can solve the Ripper murders.”

Sherlock arched one brow. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

John eyed him carefully. “Liar,” he chuckled. Sherlock’s deep laughter rumbled between them. John revelled in the sound—it was rare and therefore all the more precious for it. How in the world could it be that John Watson, of all people, could make this brilliant madman _laugh_? God, he loved it.

When the moment passed, Sherlock’s expression grew sombre as they continued to regard each other. “So, you would just pick up and go with this doctor if he asked?”

“I—” John struggled. He searched Sherlock’s face for a clue as to what the right answer might be. “I would. But there’s only one place I can think of now that I would go.”

“John…”

“If I could go anywhere, I’d go back to Bart’s that day…find the sniper so you wouldn't have to...” John trailed off, unable to drag his gaze from the man across from him.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said a bit sadly. “Please, don't…”

“Right. No, you’re right,” John nodded. He dropped his chin again. “This was—we should go.”

John turned to pull the door open and was jerked off his feet when the handle refused to budge. He grunted and tried again, bracing his other arm for leverage. “Damn it!!”

“What’s the matter?” The rich voice was right at his ear.

“Well, it’s stuck, isn’t it?” John replied a bit waspishly. “Why did you close it? You knew it was sticking!”

“This is hardly my fault.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and grasped the handle with one hand below and one hand above John’s. “This is a cheap example of shoddy prop-making.” He grunted with the exertion as they tugged on the door together. “Surely—the BBC—could afford—something—better quality?”

John planted a foot against the other door, throwing his weight into their efforts…and pressing his body tight against the man behind him.

After a few minutes, Sherlock conceded. “Enough,” he panted. “This is ridiculous. The cast and crew will be back soon. I’m sure they’ll be able to get us out.”

John gave a weary laugh. “You’re probably right. Might as well just wait it out.”

John became aware suddenly of Sherlock’s body pressed against his back, and how secure the arms were that surrounded him. “You—” his breath hitched a little. He wet his lips. “You could let go.”

There was a long pause. Sherlock did not move.

“Is that what you want?” Sherlock asked softly.

John thought for a moment then shook his head.

The elegant fingers released their grip on the door handle and with excruciating slowness the long arms wrapped themselves around John. One hand came to rest on his waist, the other splayed open over his heart.

“I don’t really need him, you know,” John breathed, allowing his head to drop back against Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes closing. Tentatively, his hands came up to cover Sherlock’s, holding the embrace.

“Who?”

“Exactly,” John said with a smile. “I don’t need him because…well, I have you now, don’t I?”

Sherlock rested his chin on John’s shoulder. “Me.”

“Yup, you,” John confirmed, pressing his cheek against the sharp cheekbone now resting there. “Biggest and best adventure of my life.”

The words hung heavy between them. Finally, Sherlock spoke. “John?”

“Yes.” It didn’t matter what the question was—when it came to this man, ‘yes’ would always be the answer.

Sherlock released him, just a little. John turned immediately within the circle of the taller man’s arms and grasped the lapels of the familiar coat with both hands.

“Are you su—?”

Sherlock’s question was lost against the surface of John’s lips.

 _How do you imagine something you didn’t even know you wanted?_ John wondered as he slanted his mouth over the full cupid’s bow beneath it. He had never considered this, not really. But somehow, somehow…yes, this was right. This was exactly how it was meant to be.

John tasted the soft mouth, tenderly at first. Sherlock responded with even pressure and just the hint of a sigh.

 _Satisfaction?_ No. **_Completion._**

John expressed his agreement by coaxing his tongue between the slightly parted lips and lapping at the minty heat within. Sherlock made a strange, needy noise, tightening the arm around John’s body and lifting one hand to cup John’s jaw. John felt the tentative touch of Sherlock’s tongue; he drew it into his mouth and teased it with his own. He relinquished the coat collar to slide his arms up and around Sherlock’s neck, fisting one hand into dark waves.

John collided with the TARDIS wall as they fell, clinging together. He grazed the full bottom lip with his teeth, eliciting a moan from Sherlock. He traced the shape of the bow with his tongue. John was drowning in the sound, the feel, the taste of their kiss when…

“Oi!!” A hand pounded on the TARDIS door. Rob. “What are you two doing in there?”

John withdrew slowly, eyes still closed. When he opened them, he was greeted by the sight of his best friend’s eyes wide with surprise. He was sure his own were much the same—this was not at all what he'd expected to be doing today.

“The door is stuck,” John shouted, not looking away from the man in his arms. “We couldn’t get out.”

There was a series of thumps and grunts as Rob attempted to free them from the outside. “No good. They hung the new door just this morning. I’ll have to go get the prop master.”

“No rush,” Sherlock shouted back, the corner of his lips turning up. “Is there?” he asked John softly.

John shook his head. “Of all of time and space, I choose here and right now.”

Sherlock’s smile was genuine, and a little tentative. _New territory._ “John, I—”

“I love you.” John said the words without hesitation or fear. _There. There it was. No taking it back._

Sherlock released a heavy breath. “Yes. That…that’s…I do…yes. As well.” The younger man twitched nervously. “I…love you.”

John drew him closer. “When we get out of here—?”

“Yes.” Sherlock mimicked John’s earlier emphatic reply with a broad grin. He ran a finger over John’s jaw.

“Good.” John kissed Sherlock’s chin. “Now, then…where were we?”

-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> * No, really, it does...http://instagram.com/p/T08JPTAmEH/ LOL. Sorry, doesn't take much to amuse me :D


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